


Hate On Our Tongues

by Deathstar510



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Attempted Murder, Bad People Making Bad Decisions, Blood is mentioned, Breathplay, Enthusiastic Hate Sex Specifically, Hate Sex, I feel like that's a mild aspect but def there, M/M, Minor Violence, Mirror Universe, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Terrible Terrible Decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathstar510/pseuds/Deathstar510
Summary: Elim Garak has many turn-ons and hate is one of the biggest.  And he really, really hates the Regent.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GulJerry (GulJeri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GulJeri/gifts).



> My entry for Round 9 of trek-rarepair-swap and one of my more niche pairings. This was a delight to write, hope it's a delight to read too!

For a long time, Garak thought that he would never meet someone he hated more than Intendant Kira.  No one could ever possibly be as petty, short sighted, obsessed with her own little games over the bigger picture – actually keeping Terok Nor up and running.  The fact that she was _achingly_ attractive, even with all of her shortcomings, not to mention extremely good at evading assassination attempts, was salt in the gaping wound.

She was everything he hated crammed into a skintight leather outfit.  He hated her.  She hated him. Sometimes they still managed to please each other through their mutual dislike – or perhaps because of it, in some cases.

But, as it turned out, he hadn’t hated her, not _really._ Disliked her, yes.  Looked down upon her, absolutely.  Attempted to murder her, several times.  But hated… no.  No what he felt for her was nothing compared to the overwhelming, soul deep urge he had to punch Regent Worf right in the face.

It wasn’t just that the man had collared him, though that was a sizable part.  Being on the floor in the middle of the ship’s bridge where people could walk by and _snicker_ at him was infuriating, but in a way that Garak already knew how to deal with.  It should have been fixed with the appropriate application of ego stroking and seduction – that’s how it always worked with the Intendant and it kept her manageable despite her overall lack of predictability.  He’d have thought the same would apply here but, yet, the chain was still attached and Worf was seemingly still rather set on Garak not being his type.

As if a man not interested in him would keep him chained on the floor at his feet, who did he think he was fooling?  Garak understood the value in playing hard to get but, honestly, there was a point where it was just insulting to imply that he wasn’t being hit on with this entire ordeal.

Worf twisted his hand absentmindedly, tugging at the chain and cutting off Garak’s air for another moment, as well as tugging him yet another inch closer.  All while not even having the decency to look at the results of his actions or even act as if he realized he was doing it.

Absolutely infuriating.  Garak could put up with many things but being ignored was certainly not one of them.

Standing up was potential suicide but Garak would take death over one more second of having to sit on the floor with zero attention paid to him whatsoever.  And, as expected, the instant he rose off the floor Worf’s head snapped around, eyes locking onto him.  He stared like a snake about to strike, lips curling back to expose his teeth in a vicious snarl.

Yes, this he could work with.  Anger was so much better than indifference and, frankly, death was better than boredom.

It might well be what was coming for him too, if the way Worf viciously pulled on the chain was any indication.  This time his air cut off for several seconds longer, nearly a full minute.  One of Worf’s hands kept the chain pulled taut, the other one grasped tightly around Garak’s chin as he growled.

“What do you think you are doing?”

“I thought it’d be obvious,” Garak forced out – a considerable effort given that he currently had no air in his lungs.  “I’m attempting to stand up.”

“I did not give you permission to move.”  Another hard jerk on the chain.  Garak wavered at the lack of air and Worf seemed to realize all at once that he’d have no fun threatening an unconscious man – he finally loosened his grip and let his prisoner take a breath.  “You only move when I give you permission to move.”

“If I waited for permission to move, we’d all be here until well past old age, I would think.”  Their faces were mere inches apart now, something that the Intendant would have recognized as opportunity to catch Garak in a violent kiss.  Worf seemed in no rush to that conclusion anytime soon so Garak would simply have to speed up the process.

There were likely smoother ways to do so than dropping his hand right into Worf’s crotch but, quite frankly, Garak was done attempting to be smooth.  Smooth had gotten him absolutely nowhere for several days now and he was done with it.

Worf’s entire body locked up like he was intending to flex his way right out of the situation.  When his muscles failed to fling him out of Garak’s reach, he stared straight into his eyes instead, snarl somehow twisting beyond what any mouth should be allowed to stretch.  Truly grotesque.  Garak had never been more turned on.  “You are still not my type.”

“I am finding that increasingly difficult to believe,” Garak said, accentuating the word with a squeeze of his hand.  “For one, you have yet to make me stop touching you.”

They were being stared at which, honestly, was Worf’s fault for insisting on carrying this entire production out on the bridge of his ship.  If he didn’t want underlings staring at everything, he shouldn’t have put a man on a leash in plain view of them.  And he still hadn’t removed Garak’s hand.

Worf seemed to realize that, looked at him, then down, then grabbed Garak’s wrist and jerked it away from the growing bulge in his pants.  He stared at it as if it had betrayed him for responding to this.

In all ways that mattered, Garak had succeeded.  Whatever happened now, the situation would be remedied.  Either Garak had roughly half a minute left to live or Worf was going to finally admit his lust and cease the entire charade.

When Worf stood up, still with Garak’s wrist clasped roughly in his hand, he didn’t know just which one it was.  Not until Worf actually began to drag him away.  If this was going to be an execution, he’d have done it right there on the bridge – he’d never been shy about public violence before.

Excellent.  This really had been the preferred outcome.  Despite what his terrible decision making up to this point might have implied, Garak actually wasn’t interested in dying just yet.

He was, however, quite interested in getting clothes off and that seemed to be in his near future.  The instant that Worf got him to his quarters and closed the door behind them, Garak closed the distance between them.  His free hand reached up to grab the collar of Worf’s uniform, dragged him down for their lips to meet.

It was violent, needy, Klingon and Cardassian blood drawn in equal measure and mixed in their mouths as they bit at each other.  It was the best taste Garak had found in years.  Better than the Intendant or anyone else he’d ever drawn into bed.  He needed more.

Their clothes and Worf’s knife hit the floor with a clatter.  A harsh hand grabbed at Garak’s free wrist just as his teeth closed over Worf’s lip.  It was honestly quite surprising that the bed didn’t outright break with the force of their bodies landing on it.  Or that it stood up to what followed.

Worf, as it turned out, slept after sex.  Terrible survival instinct – the Intendant had been much brighter actually.  Now that he wasn’t paying attention, Garak had near free reign.

The knife was still on the floor.

He crawled to it, heard the clink of the chain behind him, and then came to an unexpected and abrupt stop, far more than an arm’s reach from where he needed to be.  Garak turned, expecting to find Worf awake and angry, only to lay eyes on a still peacefully sleeping Klingon.  Peacefully sleeping with the end of Garak’s chain clutched to his chest.  Apparently, even in sleep, Worf had a damned vice grip.

Garak pulled at the chain with a frustrated grunt, stretching his arm as far as it would go and coming up several inches short from the hilt of the knife.  Still the knife stayed tauntingly out of his radius, fingers only barely brushing it when he threw himself forward enough to cut off his air again.  Almost.  Almost there…

Worf rolled over in his sleep, taking the chain with him and tugging Garak flat onto his back with a strangled yelp.

The floor here was no more interesting than the floor on the bridge.  Less so actually, as the only thing to stare at here was the ceiling.  Behind him, Worf snorted, ear shatteringly loud and obnoxious.

This.  This was what real hate felt like.  Garak snarled at the uncaring ceiling and set himself to simmering in silence.

Worf would _pay_ for this indignity.


End file.
